It rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre,”
and closed with “...thus, I stand redeemed.”
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.”
Each line marched out like neat attire,
iambs in rows, a formal dream—
it rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre.”
An echo here, a fractured lyre,
a sunset soaked in self-esteem …
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.”
The image: “…hope tastes like sapphire”
entangled “rotten in Denmark” metaphor scheme.
(It rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre.”)
Its title bore ALL CAPS—entire!
— and ended with a line too lean.
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.”
No whisper, sigh, or breath to inspire—
just algorithms chasing a theme.
It rhymed “desire” with “funeral pyre.”
The judge said, “Odd—no space, all fire.””
Robotic lines usurp those who don't cheat,
I write my own poetry!
pert main-frame purrs proudly but ponders not, poor poet does the painful part
Motivated by jealousy
she spitful undermined
my intentions
far to much to
mention: intruding
on my happiness
making it harder for
me to be
the person I wanted to be
as stoic as it seems
I'm lacking happiness
lacking valor rantings
it's more like constant chantings
in a relationship
I'm pushed to the side
interferance with my advances
in awe taking second glances
I couldn't beleive what I
saw
the odd one out
just tagging along
I know the melody
but they won't let
me sing my song
feeling excluded
moping around
sorta like ah
big silly clown
get it back together
and mosey along
fix what broken
right that whats wrong
The Baritone;" We don't need know skoo bee doo de woops, we gonna do ooh-ah ooh we"
scram Mister let me sang with your Songstress, I'll show you it's
sopposse to be!"
"the smell of dance clubs and dancehalls got me reelin"
I'm reelin
and I'm dealing
with a newly felt feeling
make ah melody
make ah melody
aint nothing specail
about what I'm feeling
make ah melody!
ooh-ah ooh:ooh
ooh ooh
ooh!
KERATIN is extracted from
cows hooves to make to
make foam for fire extinguishers.
............................................
They butchered the shank
to make disks
to serve with beef cheeks.
the wine sauce would be cooked
separate and and made of
wine
chicken feet
thyme
bay leaves
cayenne
carrots
garlic
onions
sun dried tomato's
3 anchovies
we would need
15 pounds of cheeks
20 pounds of shanks
6 pounds of chicken feet
( to make chicken stock)
the oniony, tender
meltingly beefy
goodness of meat
served with vegetables
and creamy mashed potatoes
ah- God
Mercy on these
people!
The make shift area would be chicken wire two sides
with sand and cement mixed with a cob material
and plastered
to create walls
with a tin overlapping roof.
Frequently she said of the other
who she compared
him to her
other
Asset based relationship
ought not include one or the other men
to know whats happening
Should one include
somethings that
is rude
and should the other dictate
for the other to either
ne-go or negate
it's all in the wording
that it is either excepted or rejected
most common then it's mentioned
as a point of reflection
then she schemed to meet him
must she scheme to keep him
to make so many people
involved: are these then to problemate
or problem resolve?
I must remember
when I write a poem:
no AI generated writing,
and certainly no plagarism
(even if the original is obscure).
Remember
Poem
Write
Plagarism
Obscure
The last thing I remember
reading was a poem
in which he did write
about a certain plagarism,
but the meaning was obscure.
Question: If Akashic records do exist, isn't everything I write plagarism? If what I write already exists, am I then plagarising myself? (Oh, that sounds nasty.)
Perhaps then when I close my eyes
I will see the pure blue skies
without a trace of stormy clouds,
and with no sign of ghostly shrouds.
Note: In the religion of theosophy and the philosophical school called anthroposophy, the Akashic records are a compendium of all universal events, thoughts, words, emotions and intent ever to have occurred in the past, present, or future in terms of all entities and life forms, not just human. They are believed by theosophists to be encoded in a non-physical plane of existence known as the mental plane.
To be blocked, it’s black and white or grey as a rock.
You can exist and be present, like floating particles in the air,
no mudslinging expressed but someone will make it their nosy affair.
Then a block, no valid reason for them to act like an angry cock!
A childish act of them trying to grasp a little control,
But they’ll end up acting like the biggest troll.
Past behavior often predicts their present one,
it’s only a matter of time before they’ll run.
I will never use my control to cowardly block,
instead, I'll enjoy reading real poetry around the clock.
Not AI generated with flowery alliterated words,
Or full of garbled rhymes that are just plain absurd.
“In the realm of words, where meanings entwine,
There lies a marvel, an AI divine.
A poet’s companion, imaginative in grace,
An AI poem generator, painting verse with embrace.”
“With electrical pulses, it sparks to inspire,
Crafting stanzas that soar higher and higher.
Unleashing metaphors, similes imbued,
Like a symphony of thoughts, forever renewed.”
These first two stanzas are artificial, you see.
They are AI generated, and are not from me.
The last two are mine and not a con,
I’m afraid the day of the poet has come and gone.
Is the site being invaded by the AI poet,
are we being conned and just do not know it?
Praising of false poets just makes my heart ache,
just open your eyes and you will see what is fake.
poets shall now ~ present comment guidelines which will show us how
let us avoid all ridicule ~ and not be too hyper criti-cule
check box poem enjoyed or well done ~ AI generated has begun
hell no waiter what's that fly doing in my soup?
~the backstroke monsieur favorite of the connoisseur's soup poop
pesky fly in my soup good gawd ~ i'd swat the bloody thing but i shan't
not worth the stain on my shiny new suit ~ off with you beastly pest, scoot
—Add on by Tom Woody
mock me if you must ~ uninvited poetry comment i can't trust
—Add on by Robert Gorelick
Was this poem any good? It was or it wasn't!
No—A poem, like a song
grabs you or doesn't!
Don't be insidious!!
How would they know?
I mean, this could be AI.
Could write
Any
Old bollocks.
Does it have
The
Spirit; of my poetry?
Where is my
Soul? Is it
Next to this semi-colon? :
Look at it,
Bit lonely there
But
We all are
My son
Is writing a story on paper across the room
Let he forever
Be his own mind
On paper,
In voice
In spirit